Happy Birthday Dear Brother, Happy Birthday To You
by ToriKat
Summary: Third Star crossover in which James and Sherlock are- or were- twins. Please read, and review if you'd like. It'd mean a lot. I love all feedback, good and bad! xxx


John's not the only one who has nightmares.

Sherlock wakes up in a cold sweat, choking out a whispered name in the darkness. He lies in the damp sheets, his chest heaving, eyes shut tight. His chest is tight with the sobs he's forcing down. He cannot cry aloud. John will hear. He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed, planting his feet on the floor. But he cannot get up… He doesn't look at the clock. He knows what the date will be.

Today is Sherlock's birthday.

He is 36.

Sherlock finally stands, his arms wrapped round himself in a hug. He stumbles into his bathroom, turning on the lights, ignoring the pain in his eyes when he does so. Turns on the shower, not caring if John is woken up by it. Maybe it'll piss him off enough for him to forget its Sherlock's birthday today. Sherlock hates his birthday.

Well, I supposed birthdays have always been something he's hated. He never understood WHY they were to be celebrated. Another year older. Another year in life. Another year closer to death. Pointless. Everyone grows old. Everyone lives. Everyone dies.

Today is Sherlock's birthday.

He is 36.

He steps into the shower, feeling the too hot water burn his skin. He lets it, watching his pale body turn angry red. The pain is a dull sting, nothing compared to the raging battle inside of him. He closes his eyes, only to find his nightmares and memories, not peace. Never peace.

He had peace once. It came in the form of a person. A wonderful, beautiful soul. He was as gangly and awkward with his body as Sherlock, but he was as free and high spirited as a bird, flying high. Peace was short brown hair and green eyes and that smile and laugh. It was never being bored, never being sad, always having someone. Peace was having a brother to always count on.

Peace was James.

Everyone had always liked James. James was nice and funny and popular. He was a star football player, smart, attractive. He was nothing like his creepy twin. Sherlock always knew James was better than him. Of course James was. James was the other half of him; the good half… But James didn't see it that way.

James loved Sherlock. James admired Sherlock. James was always in awe of Sherlock. James was the one who made sure Sherlock was always included, made sure he wasn't bullied. He stood up for Sherlock. He was the one who eventually got Sherlock to start getting off drugs. James protected Sherlock. And Sherlock protected James. Always.

But then James got sick.

Sherlock gasps in a deep breath, inhaling steam from the shower. His eyes fly open, staring off, but not seeing. Trembling, he was trembling all over. He strains his mind, trying to erase, to block out the memories that were shattering his self-control. But he knows they'll come. He lets them come. As punishment. It's what he deserves. So he slides to the shower floor, curling his long limbs up in a ball, shaking. And he closes his bloodshot eyes, and lets the memories take him.

… He and James had gotten into a fight. Usually they never fought, and if they did, it was petty squabbles. But this time, it was an actual fight, screaming and all.

"I DON'T WANT TO BE IN THE FUCKING HOSPITAL."

"WELL TOO BAD. THIS IS WHERE YOU'RE STAYING."

James had screamed at Sherlock about it until his voice was growing hoarse. 'IM FINE', he kept saying. He was 'fine'. He could 'deal with it'. He wanted to at least seem alive for a bit longer.

"YOU ARE DYING, JAMES. YOU'RE GOING TO DIE."

Sherlock finally had yelled in his brother's face. James swallowed hard, glaring at him, before turning away.

"It's like you think I don't know that. I might not be the genius that you are, 'Lock, but I know I'm dying. I know it'll happen. But I… Want to just let it happen. I don't want to be treated like an invalid."

"You ARE an invalid you twat."

Sherlock had spat, before storming out of his brother's hospital room, past Mycroft, past Mummy, past Lestrade… He just walked and walked and walked, and didn't stop. He didn't cry. He wouldn't let himself. He ended up doing one of his famous disappearing acts, turning his phone off and all. No cases. Lots of cocaine. Always high. He visited the beach he and James used to go to when they were younger. Just them. They'd go camping and run amuck naked everywhere, even in their late teens. And Sherlock had fun, because James was with him to make it fun. But now, it was haunting. It was dull. The sand was irritating; the water too cold, the scenery was blank.

Sherlock returned to London two days later. And came home to a letter.

Sherlock sobbed into his knees, curled up in the shower, until the water ran cold. He shouldn't have fought with James. He should've stayed. He was a terrible, terrible person. He should've died. He should've let James out of the hospital. He should've done so much… He should've been there.

He'd missed it. He'd missed James' death.

One time, when Mycroft was mad at Sherlock, he'd told him that all throughout the day of his death; James had said he knew it was coming. He knew he would die today. Of course James had known… James ensured it. The only thing he'd asked for before he broke out of the hospital was Sherlock. Over and over. And Sherlock had not come.

That had been the day Sherlock had been found, his wrists slit.

And here he was, still alive.

Was him living a punishment for what he'd done? He'd begged, he'd prayed, he'd wished on stars even, just to have his brother back. Just for a day. To fix things.

But that wasn't going to happen.

So he lived each day in his personal Hell. He'd lost the best thing he ever had. And he was reminded of him every time he looked in the mirror. His words haunted him. The memories haunted him. The letter on his bedside table haunted him. And no matter how much he wanted to delete every last bit of his brother from his mind, he couldn't.

Sherlock stepped out of the shower, turning it off, and stumbled back into his bed, not bothering to dry off or get dressed. He stared at the clock blankly, watching the time pass slowly, his eyes flicking every now and then to his coat, where he always kept one photo. One photo of him and James.

Sentiment.

He almost sneered at himself. He could never make himself as untouchable and emotionless as he wanted to be. But it was better the way it was now. No one else would get to him. He would never hurt for anyone else again. And no one would hurt like this for him. So when the day came that he died, no one would be upset. No one would care. He would be free. He would feel nothing. And everything would be okay.

Today is Sherlock's birthday.

He is 36.

Sherlock reaches a hand out slowly, and rests his fingertips on the envelope he'd received years ago. He feels tears sting his eyes again, so he closes them quickly. His tongue flicks out over his lips, and he reaches into the very depths of his mind, and pulls out happy memories, stroking the envelope gently, soothingly. Deep breaths, deep breaths. He reassures himself that he'll survive again this year- unfortunately he does little else. And so he lets the pain of sleep take over him.

Today is Sherlock's birthday.

He is 36.

Today is James' birthday.

He is still 29, and will be forever.

"_So I raise a morphine toast to you. And, should you remember that it's the anniversary of my birth, remember that you were loved by me and you made my life a happy one. And there's no tragedy in that."_


End file.
